


To the World, and to Mankind.

by yasukematsuda



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Existential Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasukematsuda/pseuds/yasukematsuda
Summary: Aziraphale gently ran his thumb down along Crowley’s face. “Your eyes.”He furrowed his eyebrows, confused as to what the angel meant.“What are you—““They look… human.”Crowley’s heart dropped into his belly and he froze before pulling quickly from his lover’s touch and darting towards their bathroom. He gazed into the mirror with alarm quickly morphing his expression into a look of shock.





	To the World, and to Mankind.

Angels and demons do not need to partake in the behaviors that humans must to survive. Eating, drinking, and sleeping can, of course, be done by those with time for leisure, but they are few and far between. Often busy conducting the business of Heaven and Hell, participation in the acts of mankind is generally frowned upon and considered an unnecessary time-waster for the immortal. 

For Aziraphale and Crowley, however, they had nothing but time for leisure following the apocalypse that, now, wouldn’t be. 

Each had been granted a leave of absence, of sorts — time away from work to let tempers cool, as well as to quell the awkwardness following each beings’ respective trial. 

Neither put up much of a fight. They, of course, enjoyed their time on Earth, not to mention the fact that the attempts on their lives by each beings’ individual superiors left a sour taste in their mouths. Aziraphale especially felt a great unease learning how utterly disposable he had been to his fellow angels, even if he hadn’t really been in harm's way.

He could thank Crowley for that. Rather, they could thank each other.

It had been four long months since the narrow evasion of the apocalypse. Four long months since exchanging faces and surviving a fate worse than discorporation.

Holy water and fire. Meant to consume and destroy their immortal bodies.

They both relished the petrified awe that overtook the onlookers; “Crowley”, or, an actor's portrayal of Crowley, lounging in a bath filled to the brim with holy water, and the stolen face of the angel Aziraphale engulfed in flames, gazing into Gabriel’s eyes as he embraced the inferno. The performances shook Heaven and Hell to their very cores, prompting a well-deserved vacation from their eternal homes.

Yes, Aziraphale and Crowley had plenty of time to do as they pleased. Good and evil, on a more profound scale, could wait. The beings were perfectly content to pretend to be human for a good while longer.

Creatures of habit, they both were. Aziraphale was settling back into his bookshop and Crowley spent his time enjoying the experiences Soho had to offer. Although, with no directions to create kindness or chaos in the world, time seemed to drag on; this was quickly remedied, though, by each creature’s affinity for the pleasures of mankind. They’d go about their schedules, and as the evening set in, find their way to a new restaurant or winery by each others’ side, retelling the events of the day, or reminiscing over the lives they lived and paths they’d crossed many millennia ago.

Many nights would end with Crowley drunkenly falling into an equally less than sober Aziraphale’s bed, and curling into his soft form as they dozed off together. It felt like such a luxury, to dine and drink and fall asleep — something angels and demons found themselves too tied up to ever truly enjoy.

The night had not strayed from their usual routine. After more than a few glasses of wine, the two had dozed off in Aziraphale’s bed.

As routine, Aziraphale grabbed for Crowley’s frame in the dark. Unlike every other night, however, he found himself grasping at the blankets that covered the pair, but not Crowley.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale muttered, pulling himself from his sleep. “Crowley, where are you?”

The angel sat up slowly, still feeling rather buzzed, to see the demon sitting up in his desk chair, staring out at the night sky.

“Is everything okay, dear?” The angel’s voice was hoarse with sleep.

“Mm?” Crowley turned back towards the bed from his spot in front of the window. “Yeah, of course. Go back to sleep.”

In no state to argue, Aziraphale managed a quick nod. “You should come back to sleep soon. It’s quite late…” His voice trailed off as he lay back into the mess of pillows and blankets covering the bed.

Crowley chuckled but had no quick-witted response to offer in reply. He merely sat quietly in the chair, cursing the sky for not being just a bit clearer that night.

Crowley waited until he was certain Aziraphale was sound asleep again and stood from the desk chair. He glanced around the room for something small — he saw many books, stationery, and pens, garments of clothes from the night before strewn about on the floor. He briefly considered picking them up, out of courtesy, but quickly concluded that was not really his style.

He settled his gaze on a book on astronomy that Aziraphale had been attempting to lend him for Hell knows how many years now. He, of course, refused it on principle. He had told Aziraphale more times than he could count that he had zero interest in reading his books but felt a quiet gratitude towards the angel for such a gesture.

Crowley motioned his hand to move the book — just a simple and benign use of his abilities, something he had done many, many times in the past. What should have pushed the book from its spot on Aziraphale’s desk to the floor only moved it a few inches. He tried once again, exerting more force than would ever have been necessary only to achieve similar results. The book hung over the edge of the desk, seemingly taunting the demon, but did not fall.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. He felt a vague unease that sat right above his stomach. Had Aziraphale not have dozed back off, he would have merely given it the same treatment as he gave to his plants. Instead, he settled on walking up to the desk and pushing the book down himself, glaring at it as it hit the floor.

“Crowley…” A muffled whine from Aziraphale. “Come to bed.”

Crowley winced, having woken his partner. Aziraphale was such an unfortunately light sleeper.

“Coming, angel.” He bit his tongue. “I’ll be right there.”

The demon took a deep breath in and resigned himself to keeping this a secret from his lover until he had a chance to test it further. There was no point in worrying Aziraphale over something so silly, and the angel had always been a bit less liberal with the use of his celestial abilities in daily life.

It’s probably nothing, Crowley assured himself, probably the bastards in Hell restricting his use of miracles while he was temporarily relieved. Just Beelzebub remaining an ever-present thorn in his side. He imagined they and Hastur were probably having a laugh about it at that very moment.

“—and you idiots thought I was full of useless inconveniences.” He muttered under his breath.

Aziraphale gave a little annoyed groan in his sleep from across the room, and Crowley’s face softened. He kicked the book from its spot on the floor underneath Aziraphale’s desk and made his way back to his lover’s arms.

Morning broke with Aziraphale meeting an, again, empty bed. He managed a puzzled look after rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Crowley usually slept in much later than he did, especially following a night of drinking to excess. Aziraphale glances over to his alarm clock — 6:30 AM. He hadn’t overslept.

So where the devil was that… well, not devil, he supposed. That wasn’t really the right word. Where was that demon, he thought, piecing together the situation while still in a morning haze.

He rose from the bed and gave a long stretch, then walked about the room grabbing the discarded clothing off the floor from the night prior and tossing it over in a hamper next to his bed. The angel made his way down from his bedroom after washing and dressing, and into the kitchen, only to be greeted by the smell of coffee and an empty table. The coffee seemed fresh; a full pot, as well. Had Crowley just made it and left?

Aziraphale’s heart sank for a split second, and in that moment he missed their more animus relations of old. He missed not having this nagging fear when Crowley was off conducting his own business. He missed that twinge of annoyance when Crowley just so happened to pop up in his vicinity for the hundredth time in a hundred years.

This, however, was different now. The annoyance became yet another familiarity of life on Earth, and soon after, became something that was no longer simple annoyance.

It was hard to say when Aziraphale had first fallen for Crowley. It was hard to even say when they truly became friends, in fact. For so long they had just been constants in each others’ lives and the angel hadn’t bothered to question it further.

Until they had to. Until they almost lost one another. Until the end of the world was said and done and staved off, and all either could think to do was hold the other so tightly they nearly lost a sense of individuality within the embrace.

That, of course, may have been exacerbated by having just swapped bodies.

The angel was worried, there was no question. Of course, Crowley could do as he pleased, but for so long their lives were no longer those of independent agents of Heaven and Hell. They had fallen into an all too comfortable routine, Crowley making mischief out of habit on occasion, but neither had their jobs to fulfill like they used to.

It was unlike Crowley to leave so early and Aziraphale couldn't divorce the feeling of fear brewing deep in his stomach from the situation he was slowly piecing together. Maybe it was nothing, he thought, but something felt incredibly off. He turned the coffee maker off and quickly threw on a jacket, making his way outside.

Aziraphale took in the view. Streets beginning to become more busy as the day set in, the sound of footsteps and vehicles from all around, storefronts making themselves look presentable for a day of business… Crowley’s car! Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as he saw the vehicle parked exactly where Crowley had parked it the previous evening.

Aziraphale jogged over to the side of the Bentley. Everything seemed to be in place; he saw Crowley’s coat left on the driver’s seat, where he had left it the night before. He saw their bag of leftovers -- oh, drat, Aziraphale thought, they had forgotten to bring those inside. Though, the comfort of knowing if Crowley had noticed, he most certainly wouldn’t have left food to spoil in such a precious possession of his. He must have gone on a walk, Aziraphale nodded to himself, his concern lessened but did not dissipate. It was still unbelievably odd, all of it. Crowley was never one to wake early, and when he did, it was for a good reason — and often one Aziraphale would hear about soon after he had learned it.

The angel thought almost fondly of being woken by an irate Crowley when his car was ticketed and towed for being parked in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop overnight without a permit nearly seconds after he learned of it himself. Of course, he contacted the city and explained it was a misunderstanding, and when that didn’t work, he may have performed a quick little miracle to bring his car back to where it had been before, with no ticket in sight.

Aziraphale chuckled, giving a soft half-smile to no one in particular, before adjusting his glasses and making his way down the sidewalk. Crowley had, hopefully, not gone too far. If he was intending to, the angel had no doubts that he would take the opportunity to drive his Bentley around.

The angel, as he walked along the street, realized how little he minded this early-morning escapade. The crisp morning air felt good on his face, and he realized he may have been staving off a hangover simply by not thinking about it. The sky, he noted, was beautiful this early in the day. Aziraphale often woke up early; in fact, until recently, he had never really taken to sleeping much. That was more his partner’s claim to humanity. Aziraphale’s mornings mostly consisted of him pouring over books and fielding phone calls of customers desperately trying to parse when the shop opened up; it was, indeed, rare for him to get a glimpse at the outside world until afternoon set in.

The sky, he thought again, was just so damn beautiful. He paused, glancing around from where he had stopped on the sidewalk, and mulled over where to go next. He supposed he could use a miracle to find the demon, but his worry hadn’t quite mounted enough to justify the possible backlash from Up There.

Despite merely being on sabbatical, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine his employers being pleased with him throwing miracles around. Especially to find the demon who had been by his side, helping to rebut the apocalypse. Especially if said finding was done out of concern for his well being as opposed to a deeply ingrained need to thwart evil at every turn.

Just as the thought had left Aziraphale’s mind, he glanced up and across the street -- the angel’s eyes were seemingly drawn to his companion’s sleek form, clad in his usual attire, albeit looking a bit more disheveled. He was standing in front of storefront listlessly gazing into the window.

In his right hand, a brown paper bag with the neck of a bottle protruding from the opening. Jesus Christ, Aziraphale muttered to himself.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted before he gave a quick glance across the street and jogged to meet the demon.

“Ah, hey Aziraphale...!“ Crowley turned to him with a bit of a spin, only slightly stumbling. He seemed relatively lucid, more so than Aziraphale had expected, at least. His black hair was mussed a bit and tie had obviously been loosened. Crowley, of course, was known to enjoy his alcohol but public intoxication -- at least on his own -- wasn’t his forte. The two would go on outings and drink to excess, but promptly returned home afterward. Otherwise, as far as Aziraphale knew, Crowley’s drinking was mostly reserved for when he felt like brooding at home in a darkened room and glaring at his plants. They both preferred to keep their heads down and avoid making a scene; it had always been a vital part of their duties on Earth to not draw too much attention to themselves.

“Crowley! Are you really out here drinking?!” Aziraphale snapped, a bit winded. “It’s not even eight in the morning!”

“See, now, that’s where you’re wrong.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, as if what he was about to say was so astonishingly clever, before he paused, thought for a second and corrected himself. “No, well, I suppose it is almost eight, but I’ve been drinking since…”

The demon dramatically counted back on his fingers. “-- since two this morning. I’ll absolutely be sober by eight, though.”

He smirked. Aziraphale’s scowl, however, did not falter.

“Then why do you still have the bottle?”

Crowley shrugged. “Couldn’t find a bin to pitch it in.”

“I was worried about you, you bastard!” Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief. “Since when do you just leave without a word? Since when do you throw things in the trash?”

Crowley paused, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Well…”

“Come on, you…!” Aziraphale grabbed the demon’s arm and tugged him back towards the bookshop. Crowley continued to stumble, having to be pulled back before stepping into the street by his obviously irritated companion.

“Oh, you rotten old snake! Will you just-- Can you please look before you just walk into traffic!? Do you really think either of us will have any grounds to request a new body be issued to us after that whole apocalypse ordeal?”

Crowley froze. Aziraphale noticed.

“...Crowley?” The sternness in his expression began to lessen.

“Dear?” He said a bit softer.

The demon seemingly sobered up in a second, expression turning resting blankly behind his shades.

“Sorry.” He muttered. “Suppose that would be a bother.”

Crowley was suddenly and forcefully reminded of the nagging concern that had kept him up for the night. If Hell was restricting the use of his abilities, they certainly wouldn’t be keen on issuing him a new body, especially over such a stupid accident.

Another thought lingered behind that, though. If they were restricting his abilities without giving him any prior notice, would they even be bothered to provide him with a new vessel? Would they even send him back up to Earth?

Aziraphale’s hand slid down from where he had gripped onto Crowley’s sleeve, and the angel interlocked fingers with him.

“Can we go home? Please?” All harshness had dissipated from the angel’s tone. Confusion and concern still were audible, but the anger didn’t last. “We can talk about this later, I just want you home.”

Crowley nodded, embarrassed and guilty, and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand a bit tighter.

The two made their way back to the bookshop slowly, enjoying the storefronts they passed by together, the angel noting a few he would like to drop by soon and trying his damndest to make their conversation at all less awkward than it already was.

Eventually, both fell quiet and into step with one another, only a few blocks from the bookshop.

“Did you try the coffee?” Crowley broke the quiet.

“I didn’t, why do you ask?”

“Threw a surprise in there.” He was met with a concerned and quizzical glance. “Not an… evil surprise. Not like a rat or anything. I think you’ll like it better than just drinking a mugful of that sugary crap each morning.”

“It’s not sugary crap, it’s cocoa!” Aziraphale sounded indignant. He paused for a second, before his face lit up, “Oh! Did you mix some cocoa mix in with the coffee?”

“Ah, well.” Crowley furrowed his brows. “Surprise is ruined now, I guess. There’s cinnamon in there, too, if we’re just revealing everything right now.”

“Oh, quiet you!” Aziraphale smiled fondly. “I do think I will enjoy that...”

His voice trailed off as he turned his attention to the door, pulling the keys to the shop from his pocket. The pit in Crowley’s stomach returned. He didn’t want to talk to Aziraphale about his night. He didn’t want to talk to Aziraphale about his drinking. He didn’t want to talk about what was happening to his abilities, and what just may be happening to Aziraphale’s as well.

Crowley, quite frankly, didn’t know what was going on, and he wasn’t particularly pressed to parse it all together now, of all times. Not with Aziraphale.

Not before he had a handle on it, himself.


End file.
